


An Accidental Indulgence

by ruffaled



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Don't copy to another site, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, POV Sam Wilson, Romance, Sam Wilson Feels, Sam Wilson is a Gift, Slow Romance, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Steve Rogers Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 13:25:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17183831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruffaled/pseuds/ruffaled
Summary: Sleeping with Steve was an accidental indulgence that permanently altered the relationship between them. Sam hoped to brush it off as another pleasurable one night stand and go about his day but things become complicated when there's breakfast waiting for him in the kitchen.





	An Accidental Indulgence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QuarkInShiningArmour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuarkInShiningArmour/gifts).



> Written for [@goddessofgamma](https://goddessofgamma.tumblr.com/) who requested Sam/Steve with the prompt, "You took your time," as part of the [Captain Handsome's holiday gift exchange](https://marvelgiftexchange.tumblr.com/). Happy holidays!

Sam stirred. The bed was soft and the blanket, warm, wrapped around him like a cocoon against the unforgiving Northern winter. 

Burnt wood crackled in the corner, scattering ash on the warm hearth. Early morning light streamed through the windows, bathing the room in an orange-yellow hue. Sharp, smooth aroma of roasted coffee beans, and the rich, greasy scent of crisp bacon, wafted through the door, left ajar, piercing the slow, indulgent morning air. 

It had snowed all night; drifting white flakes gathered along narrow window sills, between the cracks on sidewalks, settled on bare rooftops, and on empty park benches. Grey lamp posts, dewy blue car tops, and bright red berries carried on denude branches provided the only splashes of colour in a sea of white. 

Reaching out from under the covers, Sam found the spot next to him warm but empty. He forced open sleep-heavy eyes and sat up, taking in the large, angular window at the foot of the bed, with a cosy reading bench. The curtains were drawn back: Sunlight fell on the snow-covered ground outside, illuminating the peaks of dense pine groves that lined the perimeter in an orderly manner, reflecting off the frozen lake in the distance. 

He was at the Compound—in Steve's room. 

Sam pushed off the blanket. He was naked, the muscles on his back tired, hips aching and groin, sore; faint traces of rough fingers appeared on his thighs and around his neck, fading bite marks dotted his chest. Sam rubbed his eyes, mind flitting through memories drenched in the smell of alcohol, hanging heavy in the air, as hurried fingers met stubborn buttons on crisp, ironed shirts, working deftly through each loop until the materials hung loosely off bare chests; Steve was a sturdy mass of thick arms around Sam’s waist, rock-hard thighs bracketing his thinner frame, keeping him in place on the featherlight mattress. 

Walking into the hallway, Sam found it empty. Someone, probably a housekeeping staff, had decorated the walls by hanging snow-frosted wreaths and garlands, alongside long strings of fairy lights, putting frosted sprigs, scented cinnamon candles and tea lights in glass jars on identical console tables on either side. At the end of the hallway stood a pine tree decorated with a variety of ornaments in accents of gold, white and ivory. The sight took Sam back to the biting Harlem winters in the late 80s and 90s—it was a tradition in his family for each of them to spend the year saving up to buy a decoration, of their choosing and put it on the balsam firs his father used to bring home. He inhaled, remembering the spicy festive scent coalescing in his nostrils. 

Moving past the decoration, Sam entered the communal kitchen, frowning at the utter chaos everywhere; an echo of the evening’s festivities reverberated across the room, a chorus of laughter rang faint in his ears. There were unwashed dishes in the sink; used wine glasses and tumblers on the counter, some of them still had unfinished beer; a deck of playing cards soiled from spilt wine lay scattered next to the glasses; the trash bin was bursting to the brim, some of the waste spilling on the floor, and half a dozen pizza boxes stood stacked next to it. 

Sam recalled the night before in flashes: It had been a rare evening when the team sat down to dine together before they scattered for the holidays. Rhodey regaled them with what he claimed was the “updated” War Machine story, with helpful inputs from the rest of them about the face off against Ultron; Wanda performed a traditional folk song that families in Sokovia sang while huddled by the fireplace during the freezing winter; Sam recalled the way Vision had shifted closer to her after the performance left Wanda sinking into melancholy, and the way she had rested her head on his shoulder, gentle and at home, like she was meant to be there. Steve reminisced about Brooklyn, where he and Bucky used to boil everything they ate, barricade the windows with newspapers to stop the cold from seeping in through the cracks, and survive the harsh winter on cheap, imported vodka. Natasha shared little but observed the team from her seat at the counter, as she always did whenever they came together. 

Amid the chaos that spread to every corner of the room, Sam found warm, brewed coffee in the pot, with a note scribbled on a scrap of paper. It was in Steve's handwriting:  _ Gone running. Breakfast in the oven _ . There was bacon, pancakes and scrambled eggs on the plate inside—as far as one night stands went, Sam thought, looking back on past dalliances, this was already the best morning after. Most of the time, Sam left at the first crack of light in the sky to avoid awkward conversations, ignoring the constant pings on his phone. 

He sat down with food, and coffee, in a snug nook, tucked by the window and looked out. A man dressed in a puffy fleece jacket and grey fur earmuffs shovelled snow from the concrete driveway, which led uphill to the Compound's front wing housing the Avengers’ headquarter and doubling up as SHIELD’s new base of operations. The residential wing next door, where the team lived and recuperated after rough missions, had a narrow gravel pathway spiralling downhill and spilling onto the main road below. A black SUV rolled up the icy path and dropped off six men and women, probably agents, outside the main entrance. The landing pad for Quinjets, also visible from where he sat, remained empty. 

That was his life now, Sam thought. Growing up, his father, Paul, had hoped for him to one day follow in his footsteps and become a minister. Sam had other ideas. He spent his youth drifting away from the church, from his family, friends, and his community, until one day, when he was still in high school, the military came calling. He signed up on a dare. The men in uniform fitted him in an advanced prototype suit that resembled wings, and suddenly, Sam served a new god, his devotion forged in bullets and cannon fire, and sealed in blood behind stacked burlap sacks. 

Meeting Steve changed Sam's life. It unrooted him, dragged him from quiet afternoons spent helping men and women returning from the sweltering heat and charred smells of detonated grenades in deadly hot zones further east, permanently scarred, to fighting six-headed mythical death cults trying to commit mass murder. Some days, especially ones where Steve put all of them through the grinder—jogging at the crack of dawn, clawing through a winding circuit full of barbed wires and thick battle ropes, then surviving in hand-to-hand combats with Captain America and Black Widow—felt like being at the front line all over again while Sam lay breathless on a foam matt inside the training room, gasping for air. 

The kitchen door leading out to the backyard opened, bringing in a blast of freezing air that hit Sam, bone-deep, drawing a visible shudder. Steve walked in, bent over in a grey sweatshirt, trying to cover his eyes and nose from the blistering cold outside. Closing the door, he dusted white flakes clinging on damp shoulders and settling under his running shoes; his face flushed red, lips blue, and pale skin white as a sheet, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths as he inhaled the heated indoor air. Steve then dove straight for the coffee pot, holding onto warm glass with frozen fingers as if waiting for some quick fix. In his fight against the wintry morning, Steve failed to notice Sam by the window. 

“You know, there’s a perfectly good gym in the basement,”  Sam said, his mouth full. 

Steve looked up, his face cracking into a genial smile. 

“The treadmills are too slow.”

Sam heard Steve's teeth chatter and the response made him laugh, his mind drifting back to the first day they met near the Washington Monument at dawn— _ fitting _ , the rest of the team had said when Sam shared his first encounter with America’s darling patriot. “How else does one meet Captain America?” Rhodey had said. 

Steve walked over to the nook and slid into the opposite seat, carrying the pot between fingers starting to thaw, barely. “Enjoying breakfast?” he said, glancing at the half-eaten food on Sam's plate. 

“Why?”  Sam said, without missing a beat. “You fishing for compliments?”

“Maybe. It was a lot of work.”

Sam tossed the remaining strip of bacon into his mouth, gave a thumbs up and smirked. “Most hospitable lay I ever had.”

“Wow.” Steve’s brows shot up. “I'm flattered but also a little insulted. You sang a very different tune last night.”

They stared at each other in silence for a few moments. Sam measured his thoughts. He had many gnawing at the back of his mind, swimming in doubt and insecurity. Sleeping with Steve was an accidental indulgence with permanent alterations to their dynamics. For months, Sam saw himself a soldier, Steve, his captain. He followed orders, mostly, and challenged Steve's bad decisions only in private—Jim, with his vast experience, outranking all of them in military service, did most of the public verbal sparring with Steve. 

Looking back to the previous night, there was alcohol involved, sure, but Sam knew his decision to first take a detour to Steve's room, after everyone went their separate ways, then launch himself at him as soon as the door opened was made wholly sober. The attraction had been mutual for months: longing looks when the rest of the team wasn't looking, casual hands on each other in public, the way Steve’s palm pressed into the small of Sam’s back, and private offers of back rubs after difficult missions that were not made in jest; some nights, Steve brought food to Sam’s room when he was too tired, and sore, from training to move. 

“You know, it's a punishable offence to curry sexual favours from a commanding officer,” Sam said, downing the rest of his coffee in a large gulp. It started snowing again and part of the driveway that he saw the man clear earlier was white once more. 

“Are you asking to be punished? That can easily be arranged,” Steve replied, propping his chin on his hands. 

Sam choked, sputtering warm liquid down his shirt. When the coughing stopped, and he regained his bearing, taking long, deep breaths, Steve pushed a handful of napkins into his hands. His shirt, a soft shade of blue, was already ruined even as he dabbed the stained patches, sighing—it was one of his favourite shirts that his sister gave on his birthday. She would be  _ pissed. _

“I'm sorry,” Steve said. He didn't sound apologetic. In fact, his lips curled upwards and his eyes glinted, mischievous and playful. “Can I get you anything? A new shirt?”

Sam tossed the damp napkins at him. They hit Steve’s chest and dropped on the floor, weightless. “Watch your mouth, Rogers,” he said, rising from his seat. Steve followed, jumping forward to grip his arm, gentle but firm, when Sam tried to move away from the nook, trying to clear his plate. He went, willing, drawing closer to Steve until they stood mere inches apart, chests grazing. 

“Did you have a good time?” Steve's voice dropped several octaves to a whisper. Sam traced the uncertainty in his tone; he sought reassurance, which Sam gave freely. 

“I did. I very much did,” Sam said. “The breakfast was a nice touch. Very proper, very Captain America.”

Sam knew he had the upper hand after noticing the blush creeping up Steve's cheeks. He leaned in for a peck, his lips caressing against a three-day stubble, emboldened by the other's rapid change in demeanour. Seeing Steve Rogers vulnerable was a rare thing that only a few people in the world got to experience—Sam never thought he’d be one of those around whom Captain America felt secure enough to simply be Steve. The first instance happened years ago when Steve showed up outside Sam’s front door in broad daylight, covered in soot and bruises, with a woman in tow. “We need a place to lay low.” Steve pleaded, unassuming, leaving Sam confused, and touched that Cap would come to him for help. 

“We still need to talk about it,” Sam said after a moment. The plate lay forgotten on the table as Steve’s hands found their way around Sam’s hips, grip firm and sure, holding him in place. “This affects the team—”

Steve cut him off. “They don't have to know.”

“They do if this is going to be a thing.” Sam pushed back. The words left his mouth uninterrupted, before he could put a filter on them, to not appear as desperate as he felt after spending the night tracing every curve, every muscle, every vein on Steve's body, committing them to memory, yearning to feel them under his fingers once again; he wanted Steve to devour him. “Is this going to be a thing?” Sam asked, holding his breath. The lack of an immediate response and the way Steve’s eyes widened yanked whatever confidence Sam had mustered, clouding his face with uncertainty.

When Steve’s eyes drooped closed. Sam's insecurities threatened to engulf him whole; as he tried to detach himself completely, Steve spoke, stumbling around the words. “I do. I… I have wanted this for a while now and I’d like to… I’d like to repeat last night. Definitely. Maybe explore if we can… be  _ more _ . If... that’s what you want too.” 

The confession punched all remaining air from Sam's lungs, dragging him under to a bottomless pit of bubbling, euphoric relief, leaving him lightheaded, and he leaned his weight on Steve, shaky, unsteady hands anchoring onto broad, tense shoulders. That encouraged Steve and he continued. 

“I like you, Sam. Always have. You had my back when no one else did, and I'd like to think I'll always have yours when you need me.” Steve sounded firmer, his spirit returning. “I wanted to do this,” he said, gesturing at all of Sam, tracing remnants, on him, of the way Steve had wrecked him hours earlier, played him like a harp, uncovering breathless melodious tunes that left Sam a willing, enthusiastic mess, writhing under him with need. “I wish we had done this a lot sooner.”

Sam stared beyond Steve, his mind trying to keep up and process the words, ones that he longed to hear for months, and the overwhelming sincerity in the way Steve said them. He had imagined what life would be like being in a relationship with Steve more than once while spending days and nights together, cooped up in Sam’s first-floor apartment in D.C., chasing cold leads on the Winter Soldier over store-bought pizza and beer. Steve used to call every night when he was called away on mission with the Avengers, checking in on Sam, his progress, narrating his day, his disagreements with Stark–Sam enjoyed the familiarity that grew fast between them but he had always known, at least at the back of his mind, Steve’s world was very different from his own. There were too many baggage, too many ghosts and memories to last. 

“Sam?” Steve’s voice pulled Sam back to the chaotic kitchen on a snowy December morning. 

Steve looked uncertain, lost–like a damn puppy–with round blue eyes, chapped lips that he kept biting into and the way he threaded jittery fingers through his hair as anticipation, and doubt, build inside. Sam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Once again, Steve managed to turn Sam's world upside down, complicating what should've been a pleasurable one night stand, into something that made Sam's toes tingle and his throat parched. 

“You took your  _ damn  _ time,” Sam said, putting the other man out of his misery. 

Steve exhaled in relief and a victorious grin formed on his face. “We… we don't have to rush into anything. I've waited seventy years, I can wait for a few more but if it’s that important to you, we can… we can tell the team.”

“If we don’t, Jim might suspect.”

“The walls… the walls in my room… they aren't soundproof… and you weren't exactly quiet.” 

Steve grinned, sheepish, rubbing the length of his neck. Sam let out a muffled groan, pressing his head into Steve’s chest. Of course, he thought. Rhodey's room was next to Steve's, and the last time he saw the Colonel, he was very much sober and alert. 

“I can't face him,” Sam mumbled. 

“You don't have to, not until he's back, at least.”

Sam looked up. “Where is he?”

“Gone home to his Ma in Philly.” Steve pulled away, taking his plate to the sink. The housekeeping staff was off for the holidays, Sam remembered, grimacing at the prospect of having to eventually wash the dishes that  _ still  _ had bits of food sticking, clogging up the sink. He hadn't touched a dirty dish in months since moving to Compound, one of the few perks of stopping the world from ending every other Sunday, he assumed. 

“He took the kids, said Wanda's first holiday season here deserved to be celebrated. Vision just followed.”

“And Widow?”

Steve shrugged, clearing away the glasses from the counter. As a stickler for rules, and a man of strict discipline, he appeared wholly disinterested in cleaning up the full mess. 

“Gone to spin her web somewhere,” Steve said, facing Sam, eyes boring into him, glazed, giving him a once-over. Sam winced on instinct; his body protested in silence, remembering the way Steve had hammered into him, hours earlier, as if trying to drive him through the bed, a stark contrast to the feeling of gentle goose down mattress against his back. “That leaves the two of us with an entire wing to ourselves. Let me take care of you, Wilson.” The hint hung heavy in his words. 

Sam held up his hands. “Hold your horses, cowboy, I'm busy today.”

Steve's brows snapped together and his face contorted in disappointment. The half cleaned counter lay forgotten as he moved closer to Sam, lips morphing into a pout— _cute_ , like a child who was told ‘no’ for the first time, Sam thought. 

“What do you mean? I thought you wanted this. I wasn't… did I read this wrong?”

“No. No, you didn't. And I do want it, Steve, I do. Just not right now. I've got plans in the city.”

Three men from his old unit were visiting New York. Five of them had shipped out at the start of the tour, four of them returned on a United flight from Frankfurt. The fifth member, Riley, returned home in a body bag. For years, they met at Riley’s favourite pub in the city—forever a New Yorker at heart—and drank pints of beer that he never could, and toasted to his memory. 

Sam debated bringing Steve along. If anyone understood what it felt like to lose a friend in combat, to watch helplessly as life left their eyes, snuffed prematurely by a hail of bullets or a giant ball of fire or, in Steve's case, a snowy gorge in Germany. In the months that Sam spent sleepless nights, searching for Barnes, Steve had let him in on details that were deeply personal, about what had happened on board that train more than seventy years ago. The burden of sharing in on Captain America’s inconsolable regret felt heavy and touching. But Barnes was still alive and kicking  _ somewhere _ while Riley’s bones turned to dust six feet under Arlington. 

“Look.” Sam stepped closer, hovering in Steve's personal space. He itched to touch the other man again, uncover pleasure spots that remained hidden, remembering how sensitive Steve’s body could be—the spot under his ribs, on his inner thigh, around the dips on his hips that drew strained moans earlier—but his hands stood firmly by his side. “I'll be back by night and then we can go to town on each other and figure out where it leads us.” 

Steve's expression lifted at the veiled promise, face breaking into a grin and he squared his shoulders, exuding confidence. “I'll hold you to it.”

 

— FIN —

**Author's Note:**

> This was beta-ed by the ever generous, and ever patient, [@starkravinghazelnuts](http://starkravinghazelnuts.tumblr.com/). Thank you so much for catching all of my atrocious grammar mistakes and lack of punctuation.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [@rescueironman](http://rescueironman.tumblr.com/). All mistakes in this fic are mine. Thank you for reading!


End file.
